Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(73)
“Don’t leave me again, okay?” I whispered, and he nodded, dipping his head down, running his nose along the side of my face, nuzzling into the crook just below my ear.
“Can I please get out of the car now?” I asked, sitting up higher on the seat, curling my legs underneath me and in the process, flashing him my thighs as my robe rose higher and higher. He started to nod again, but then thought better of it.
“How about I just take you home?” he murmured, beginning to drop tiny kisses all along my jaw, sweeping back along to the hollow of my neck. I shivered, and he took that to mean yes, yes get in this truck and drive me the hell home.
And he did.
I climbed all over him in the truck, sitting on his lap, straddling his lap, laughing as he drove while looking over my shoulder, right hand on the wheel and left hand fumbling under my robe. I kissed his neck, bit his ear, sucked on his jaw, and got my hand halfway down his jeans before he turned into his driveway and pulled me out of the cab and onto him. His hands were everywhere as he picked me up, this time not over his shoulder but tangled across him like he was wearing a Natalie sweater, legs wrapped around his middle, arms wrapped around his neck, my robe dangling from my elbows with my T-shirt up around my neck.
His eyes were wild as he devoured my skin, almost tripping up the front porch steps in his need to get me inside . . . to get me inside. And when we saw the basket of muffins nestled next to the front door, he kicked it aside, the front door banging open wide.
He f*cked me on the stairs in the entryway, with his pants around his ankles and my panties torn from one thigh. He f*cked me with the front door wide open, with the truck lights still on and the driver’s-side door still hanging ajar, the radio still turned on.
And the muffins stood alone, cold and untouched.
Chapter 18
I stayed in Bailey Falls all day Sunday, and Sunday night as well. I’d planned to get back into the city and get some laundry done, see my parents, get some work done, see some friends, but man oh man, when a guy like Oscar looks at you from across the room, and wants to figure out exactly how many times he can make you come by his tongue alone . . . time tends to stand still.
So I took the early train Monday morning, raced to my apartment, threw on the first clean anything I could find in my closet, and made it to work only an hour late. Well. Ninety minutes.
I walked quickly into my office, keeping my head down to sneak in under the radar, but when my coworker Liz saw me, she shrieked, “It’s not an urban legend! Natalie has returned!”
So much for under the radar.
“Hey, Liz, how’s it going?” I replied, smiling and nodding and trying like hell to get into my office quickly. There was something stuck to my back that had been itching the entire way uptown, and I’d been scratching since Twenty-second Street. I slipped out of my jacket, tossed it across the back of my chair, and waved her in.
“You’ve been spending so much time on this account I feel like I never see you anymore,” Liz said, looking at me pointedly.
“I know, it’s been crazy! But the campaign is coming along really well. You know how it is, really want to capture the essence of the small town, blah blah blah.”
“Speaking of blah blah blah, I heard a rumor that one of the campaigns up for grabs today is Wool, that cute little shop over on Madison that sells those insanely expensive sweaters? If it happened to come to me, I wouldn’t be opposed to it, if you know what I’m saying . . .”
“Shop on Madison, shop on Madison, have I been there?” I asked, trying to picture which one she was talking about. Shops tended to open and close so quickly in Manhattan; no one could afford their rent very long if their store wasn’t performing almost immediately.
“Sure, sure, remember we went there right after it opened? You hit on the sales guy who tried to sell us woolen dickies and ended up meeting him for a drink that weekend?”
“The guy with the ears, right?” I dimly remembered riding a beautiful face with unfortunately large, floppy ears. I’d felt like I was on a ride at Disney World.
“Exactly, the guy with the ears. And his boss is the guy with the pitch, so when it comes up, if you could be looking in my direction, that’d be ever so groovy.” She blinked at me so innocently I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Ever so groovy?”
“Partridge Family marathon yesterday. I was this close to getting my hair feathered.”
“Jeez, I would have had to friend-divorce you—or at least take you to my salon. Which reminds me, I’m pretty sure I missed my last appointment with Roscoe.”
“Whoa, you missed an appointment with Roscoe? Hairstylist to the stars Roscoe?”
“That’s the one, and he gets pretty testy if you no-show on him. I’ve been avoiding my email all weekend; I just know I got one of those ‘sorry we missed you, but no one does this, so thin ice and all that’ emails,” I replied, scratching my back again. I did feel bad. Roscoe had been doing my hair for years, long before he became the stylist everyone was trying to get an appointment with. I also didn’t tell her that the appointment I’d missed had been the second in a row . . .
“I would kill for an appointment at his salon, and you’re blithely missing yours—what a life!” Liz said, shaking her head. “So, you’ll be on the lookout for that pitch today? Wool?”